The Flute, the Peddler and the Demons: A Parable of Darr the Destroyer

Two Old Men

Tell me a story.

What?

Tell me a story, old man.

The first old man’s tone of voice was as suggestive as his facial expression. That is to say, it was minimal. Many people might have read into the face and tone of voice what they expected to hear: command, anger, boredom or even curiosity. A truly observant person would have noted the eyes. Though it was by no means obvious, if one looked closely, there was the unmistakable glint of mischief.

It was only present for a moment when he glanced at his companion, then quickly gave his attention again to his meal: stew made with tubers from a plant similar to potatoes. They weren’t potatoes, though. They were not found locally in this world, though what they were called was anyone’s guess. He carefully ate small bites of his stew hoping that they were nutritious. While he ate he waited for another response to his question. It was not quick in coming.

When it did come, it was brief.

A story?

Yeah, a story.

The second old man also ate his stew slowly, though he did stop a moment to study the old man. Someone looking at the first old man would have noted that he was not young. They also would have said that he was elegant as well. He was tall and slender with long silver hair that reached down his back. Unusually, the hair of his beard was as straight as the hair on his head. He was obviously old, but fit and many would still have considered him good-looking. His face was also devoid of emotion as he went back to eating his meal.

Just what kind of story would you have me tell you? Pause. A bedtime story?

Now the first old man smiled, a flicker only, but a smile nonetheless. He appreciated the humor, though he was not surprised by the other’s delaying tactics.

If another person were to describe the second old man they would have noted that a smile transformed the normally serious, rather intimidating face. He was shorter than the other old man and thicker in build. He looked as if he would have been comfortable swinging an axe or throwing rowdies out of a tavern. He had a broad, round head to go with the body. His beard, in contrast to his companion’s, was full and bushy. Instead of silver hair his hair had a dingier gray color to it that perhaps suggested brown many years in the past. What hair he had left on his head was woven into a braid that dangled down his back. Another person would have noted that this man, like the other, was old. It wasn’t just their appearances, which were deceptively youthful, but more their auras that related age.

Make it a bedtime story if you like, but I want to learn something from it.

What is it you want to learn?

I’m not sure. I suppose it’s difficult to know what you don’t know. It should be something that would presumably make me a better person.

A bedtime story might teach you that you are sleepy.

Another smile. Let’s assume that I would probably know already if I were sleepy. Anyway, I’m not sure that it would fit the criterion of making me a better person.

The second old man shrugged, as if to say that he wasn’t so sure of that. Then as if he was then out of ideas, he went back to eating his stew. When no further suggestions were forthcoming the first old man spoke again.

Let me think of some parameters then. How about enlightenment; the duality of life, like light and dark or right from wrong; the idea of love being the motivating force for life; how time works; destiny or free will? He paused to take a breath. Why spiders make me uncomfortable but snakes do not; how a kid I grew up with could outrun everyone in town even though he had one leg seriously shorter than the other; why everything tastes like chicken; why you and I are doing what we are doing; what it means to be a god.

The second old man stirred his food around on his plate though he had stopped eating. He didn’t speak immediately when the break in the monologue came. Sounds more like you would rather have a polemic discussion.

The first old man shook his silvery head. No. I don’t want to argue about it. I want to hear a story.

The second old man could understand the need in his friend. The two of them were there together for a purpose. He didn’t doubt the first old man’s commitment, but the old man had a need: a need to understand not what they had already done, but what they were to do; a need to believe that he was the light and not the dark, though he already understood that he was both; the need to believe that the flow of time would heal all wounds instead of everything ever done being frozen in place; the need to believe that love would conquer all even though many would argue that it couldn’t exist without hate; the need to understand that so-called gods understood more than normal men.

Maybe the other leg was longer than it was supposed to be.

It was the first old man’s turn to answer. What?

Maybe, instead of the one leg being shorter than it was supposed to be, maybe his other leg was longer than it was supposed to be. Maybe because it was not within the parameters of what his leg would normally have been, it gave him powers he wouldn’t have had otherwise.

The first old man didn’t look up. He finished his current bite of food before speaking. The two old men looked each other in the eyes. An observant third party might have noted some sort of power struggle taking place between them, though the exact nature of that struggle wasn’t apparent. That is a plausible explanation, but what it isn’t, is a story.

The second old man looked down, not in defeat, only in a postponement of their battle. He took another bite as he found new interest in his food.

The meaning of life was to live. The second old man understood this. It had taken him most of a normal man’s life to learn this simple but important lesson. There were many other lessons he had learned and others still that he wished to learn. Obviously his companion had unresolved issues as well. In understanding the first lesson, though, one had to remember that other lessons were often meaningless taken out of the context within which they were learned, within which they were lived. The story often was as important, or sometimes even more important, than the lesson that had been learned. Many times life was the lesson. The first old man asked to be taught something, but he was making it clear that the context of the message was as important as the lesson itself. This was the challenge that he was making to the second old man. The second old man wasn’t intimidated by the challenge. He had already decided to do it. He just hadn’t decided on the form yet.

Though most people would have considered the second old man ancient beyond logic, his memory was excellent by almost any standard. He knew many stories, both old and new. He knew stories from his life and from others’ lives; though he wasn’t sure about how clear the separation was between his life and others’. He chuckled to himself when he realized that his own ruminations were covering some of the areas his colleague had suggested.

The second old man spent several moments going through his thoughts but the first old man never seemed to notice. A third party might have commented on the patience of both men. A wise person would have understood that there is no need to hurry in situations like this for men who have experienced life and time the way they had. They both continued to eat until they finished their meal. When they had finished and cleaned up, the second old man had chosen the story he would tell.

They settled down next to each other with their backs against the rock wall that towered over them, watching the valley below from where they were camped as well as the surrounding skies. The two men’s outward appearances were obviously different, though in countenance they might have been blood relatives, which they were not.

There was no need to be short. There was no need to be rushed. They would be here all night. It was unlikely either of them would sleep much before tomorrow. The second old man would tell a story that was close to his heart.

Darkness and Light

First there was nothing. Darkness. Absence of light. Absence of defining sensations. Absence of body. Absence of thoughts. Absence of desire. Absence of pain. Absence of memory. At least at first.

Slowly, very slowly, awareness crept in. Awareness of difference. Awareness of someone else. There was light. There were thoughts not his own. There was familiarity. Joy came in warm light. What do you want?

Then the realization that there was a thought of his own. What?

This is the first time. What do you want?

Confusion. The question was important, he knew, but only confusion came forth. There was patience. There was compassion. There was understanding. Then just waiting.

The question was important. He kept circling the fuzzy ball that was the question, trying to understand. A part of him knew that he should understand the significance of the question. Frustration grew as it continued to confound. Faster he circled the ball of light that was the question, becoming more frustrated as he circled, then suddenly stopped. A breakthrough. She/he/they were waiting for him to go somewhere. Where?

Again came the light, the joy, the familiarity. He knew. He projected a feeling of happiness, a large smile if he had been capable of smiling.

What do you want?

He continued to project the smile feeling but didn’t say anything at first. Humor reflected back at him. I’m not done.

The smile feeling reflected back at him. Then the darkness came again.

There was darkness. Then sensation returned quickly. There was cold! Then there was light in waves. THERE WAS NO BREATHING! There was thrashing and desperation to rise. THERE WAS PANIC! He had to get out! He had to rise! Then he felt the pain in his head as he thrashed ever more wildly, a small part of him realized that he was rising. Hope exploded in his heart. He wasn’t going to die. His thrashing became wilder.

The urge to breathe was becoming overwhelming. Then he was out. His head was above water and his gasping was completely out of his control. It took him a couple of breaths to regain enough sense of himself to realize that he was on his back and his head still hurt. Something was pulling him by the hair through the water. Once again his thrashing increased as he tried to get loose from whatever had him by the hair.

OOOPPTTHH!!! He didn’t understand. Again he increased his fight against whatever had a hold of him. There was a pause, then, STOP IT OR YOU WILL DROWN US BOTH! Then the pain in his head resumed as whoever had him started pulling again. He didn’t exactly become calm, but he understood well enough that whoever had him was pulling him through the water. He tried to become calm, he really tried, but he couldn’t help the panic that overcame him. He couldn’t swim, and it was so cold! In spite of his best efforts, he started thrashing again. Panic had fully set in again when his foot grazed something. Every instinct in his body told him that a big water creature was going to eat him. Every muscle strained to get away. Then the pain in his head disappeared and he was underwater again. He quickly lost any sense of direction. He frothed the water trying to find anything substantial to anchor himself. It was then he felt something with his fingers, only for a fleeting moment, but it was enough to cause him to thrash again, but it was gone. Then he felt it again, this time against his arm. The third time he grabbed it with the strength of a drowning man and refused to let go and began to pull himself hand over hand. Moments later he found purchase with his feet only to slip and go under water again, but this time he knew where up was and he quickly found solid footing again. He continued to pull with his hands and walked the best he could along the bottom. His head was above water more often than it was below it now and the panic began to be replaced by a sheer determination to reach the shore.

It was at this point that he began to become vaguely aware of the person who was hanging on to the other end of the branch that he was so desperately clinging to. Whoever it was did not seem to be very big.

Finally he was walking himself along the bottom and rising out of the water onto the bank of the river. Exhaustion overtook him and he collapsed back into the water. This time, though, the water was shallow enough that even on his hands and knees his head was out of the water. He just stayed there, shaking, gasping, resting and trying to find the strength to crawl onto the riverbank. That was when he heard the yelling.

He heard the splashes and felt the occasional wetness from the splashes but didn’t have the energy to look for the source. Stop it, Goin! It was a small voice yelling. He made a supreme effort to look up. The voice belonged to a young girl. Shock hit him as he realized that it was the young girl who had pulled him out of the river. His arms gave out and he fell into the water. He got back onto his hands and knees and began crawling towards the bank that was so close now. He could vaguely feel the pull of small hands trying to help him. The next time he collapsed the water was only a few inches deep. His face was partially in the water, but he could still breathe, so he just stayed there.

More splashes, more yelling. STOP IT, GOIN!

Get out of the way, Yin! More yelling but Darr ignored it. He focused on breathing. Just breathing. Air in. Air out. Air in. Air out.

Get out of the way, Yin!

Why don’t you go kiss a horse’s @#$%$#%#$, you *&^*&%$ coward!

In spite of his exhaustion Darr forced himself to look at the little girl who was using such foul language on his behalf. Standing next to him, protectively placing herself between Darr and several boys who were peering over the side of a bridge above them, was a young girl of no more than eight or nine seasons. She was yelling at the top of her lungs and occasionally grabbing rocks and throwing them at the boys on the bridge. Though the rocks were falling woefully short of their intended targets, her words definitely found their mark. The boys were trying hard to focus their anger at Darr, but instead they found themselves completely flummoxed by the young girl that was so intensely hurling expletives at them. She became more and more vociferous in her attack on the boys until it finally culminated in her turning around, hiking up her skirts and slapping her butt which was now pointed in the general direction of the boys on the bridge. Exclamations of disbelief followed. The battle was won, and everyone knew who had won it. A few lame insults and threats came down from the bridge, but in a few minutes the boys were gone, being chased by a young girl’s insults and a somewhat older boy’s exhausted cackles.

Darr reviewed the events that had immediately transpired prior to his rescue by this young girl next to him. He had come to Bridgetown to buy material for his mother. It was for her birthday. Darr had collapsed on his back in the shallow water after the boys had left, but now he struggled to sit up on his elbows to look around. It took a couple of moments for him to find the material. It was wadded up in a pile on the opposite bank of the river, past the bridge. Anger came coursing through Darr. The material was ruined. He didn’t need to go look at it to know.

He was going to get even. Darr promised himself that those boys were going to pay. Oh, they were going to pay. On his way out of Bridgetown, after purchasing the material from the seamstress there, he had been stopped on the bridge by a group of boys. They had started out making rude comments which Darr had returned in kind until a pushing match had ensued. By that time, Darr was mad enough to not give a damn that he was outnumbered six to one, and when the leader of the boys pushed him, Darr pushed back. A fight was inevitable and Darr found himself punching, kicking, biting and scratching the best he could, and though he felt that he had given out better than he had received, they had eventually beaten him down and thrown him and the material for his mother over the side of the bridge into the river that ran underneath. Lucky for him the little girl had seen him and pulled him out of the water. He couldn’t swim, so the rational part of his mind knew for sure that if she hadn’t pulled him out, he most likely would have drowned.

While he was ruminating in his mind the ways that he was going to exact his revenge, he was startled by the sudden sound of music. Had he not been so exhausted he would have jumped, but fatigue made him merely turn his head to look at the source of the music.

His junior-sized savior had miraculously produced a wooden flute and was now playing it. She seemed to have completely forgotten all the events that had occurred in the previous few minutes. Darr found himself curious, but once again fatigue claimed him and he collapsed onto his back again to allow himself to recover his breath. Like the water he was still lying in, the music washed over him. She was surprisingly good. The tune she was playing was a dance of some sort in triple time.

He listened to her song until it was done, then he worked up the energy to get back onto his hands and knees and crawl the rest of the way up the bank out of the cold water. The girl stopped playing and watched his progress. Once he was on dry land he looked at her and thanked her for saving his life.

You’re welcome. She shrugged her shoulders as she said this, and began playing her flute again, another dance tune.

He waited until she finished, then asked, What’s your name? When she told him he felt a wave of recognition. He remembered the boys yelling at her to move out of the way. Her name was Yin.

My name is Darr.

Pleasure to meet you, Darr. Her sudden formality as she stuck out her hand to shake his amused him. They shook hands and then she started playing again. Now sitting up on the grass that covered the bank he listened to the girl play her next song. He genuinely enjoyed it. She was pretty good and the next time she stopped, he told her so.

That pleased her and prompted her to play another song. They quickly fell into a rhythm. She would play a song and when she finished they would talk a little. He learned that she had been playing the flute for a couple of summers now and that she had received the flute from the Peddler. When Darr admitted that he didn’t know who the Peddler was, she had been surprised. The Peddler was known, at least by reputation, by many people. Admittedly he was to many people a legend that was more fiction than fact. But he is real, ’cause I’ve met him. He’s my friend! she proclaimed proudly. He even taught me my first song. She then began to play her flute again. This was no dance tune, though. The song she played began pouring out and it was a story. Darr could not have said in words what the story was, but he understood it. It had sadness in it, but it was deep. It was sentimental and nostalgic, about days in the past and days yet to come. The past. The future. Love. Love lost. Darr was still lost in the song when he realized that she was no longer playing. He was a little embarrassed because she was just sitting there watching him. She was remarkably patient for a little girl. Darr had never met anyone quite like her before.

So, this Peddler taught that song to you?

She nodded as if it were obvious. How come you don’t know about the Peddler? Everyone knows about the Peddler, even if they can’t see him. The last comment caught Darr’s attention. He told himself that he would ask about it, but somehow he never got around to it. Later that day, though, he would berate himself for failing to ask. Some people say that he’s been around for hundreds of years.

Darr shrugged his shoulders. I live up on the mountain. He pointed over his shoulder at Mount Ollir. My village is called Salz. The girl shrugged, indicating that she didn’t know the village. Can you play another song? I like it when you play. You’re very good.

Yin beamed when he complimented her. It made him feel good to see that she was so pleased. She put the flute to her lips and began to play another dance song. Darr listened for a bit, then, on an inspiration, he forced himself to stand up and started to dance. Seeing his enthusiasm, Yin started to play a little faster, challenging Darr’s dancing. Not wanting to back down from the challenge, Darr kept time with his dancing and began to sing. He had no idea what the words were to the song Yin was playing or even if the song had any words, so he just made up nonsense words. When Yin finally realized what he was doing she started giggling so much that the entire song fell apart and the two collapsed onto the grassy bank in fits of laughter.

They stayed there for the remainder of the afternoon playing music, dancing, singing and laughing until the sun went behind the mountain and Darr knew that he had to go. There were many times in the future when Darr would look back with fondness on this afternoon he spent with Yin on the riverbank. He would remember it as the best day of his life.

The Peddler

Darr’s levity was dampened greatly when he retrieved the bolt of cloth from the river. He had held out hope that it could somehow be salvaged, though it certainly wasn’t going to be worth anything near to what he had paid for it. Darr had come down the mountain with coin enough to buy a bolt of cloth and then some. He had had more than enough to buy the cloth with plenty left over, but the remaining money was gone. Most likely it had been stolen by the boys who had thrown him into the river, or was lost in the river itself. The thought of those sons of bitches stealing his money made him seethe with anger. Images of revenge raced through his mind. In the time it took him to climb the mountain back to his home, he had been through dozens of scenarios all ending with Darr taking his much deserved and always violent revenge.

As he began to get closer to his home, his thoughts turned to how he was going to avoid getting another beating. The